


and then (to fate's dismay) my soul saw you

by light_loves_the_dark



Series: a better world [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Gen, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, finally some good pxs in this au, sansa is snarky af and varys and petyr love it, that's it that's the story, y'all better BELIEVE lady is alive in this verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_loves_the_dark/pseuds/light_loves_the_dark
Summary: It seems ridiculous to say that one knows the exact moment that their life changes. But Sansa feels something shift when she looks into Petyr Baelish’s eyes. She can almost see his mind ticking, plans evolving, futures disintegrating and rebuilding. Somehow she knows that she has just seen a man doubt everything he knows and reconstruct it all in seconds, and she feels undeniably powerful at the thought.-Sansa meets her first two soulmates, and something in Westeros shifts forever.





	and then (to fate's dismay) my soul saw you

**Author's Note:**

> so I finally churned out this meeting! a couple of people prompted this, as well as varys and sansa interacting and ned reacting to sansa's marks. keep sending them in! :)

It is on a deep, dark night, on the verge of spring, that the last child of Winter comes quietly into this world. The wind howls in protest of the coming season, and the stone battlements seem to creak and groan as if they are made of wood.

  
The babe arrives with little fanfare, delivered into the hands of her loving mother. The woman names her child with a near whisper before exhaustion claims her. Her father, on the other hand, races into the room, calming at the steady breathing of his wife before taking the tiny life into his arms. The nurse bobs a curtsey before leaving them to their devices. 

Eddard Stark looks down at his daughter with kind eyes that show the goodness in his heart. He shifts the tiny bundle in his arms to count her little toes and fingers for himself, but instead finds himself counting something entirely different.

Most children are born into the world as wailing, blank slates. It is the true way, the right way, under the Seven. But those who pray to the old gods know that to be born with a soulmark is a blessing. After all, a person is near incapable of lying to their soulmate, or causing their soulmate pain.

There is a splash of bright red across her abdomen. Three lines of gold make their way around her calf, down her arm, and a particularly long passage is scrawled across her back.

The script is far too small to read, but Ned is able to make out several words: mother, queen, rightful, and dead, before he makes himself tuck the furs back around his youngest child.

He coos to her, trying not to think about number of marks on his first daughter. It is a dangerous world, and fate has marked her to play a larger role than Ned would have ever wished for her. He rocks her gently, a thumb pressed over the words on her stomach.

_She will be protected,_ he vows, swearing then and there on the threshold of Spring to only give her away to the man who speaks those words. At least she will never know pain at his hands.

At least her father can make this promise, if nothing else.

Sansa of the House Stark smiles up at him, fingers catching in his hair, unaware that this unspoken promise has changed her luck forever.

-

 

Sansa Stark, with only six and ten years, arrives in the capital with little fanfare. She feels anything but lucky; her parents and her eldest brother are dead, her half-brother is lost to the Night’s Watch, her sister and middle brother are missing, and the fate of her youngest brother rests in her hands.

For two years, since her mother and brother left to fight in the War of Kings, Sansa had fought to protect and prepare her home for the coming Winter. In times such as these, children grow up fast, and with Bran so young, Robb had placed Sansa in charge. Somehow, she had kept Winterfell afloat, but when she had received the news of Robb’s death, she had written to Cersei and arranged for the last son of House Stark to finally come home.

And if that meant she had to willingly deliver herself into the claws of the enemy, she would do so without a second thought. Her brother is the heir. He is the only one who matters. Maybe she wonders, thinking of the handsome knights of her dreams, she can even arrange a decent marriage.

The words on her abdomen burn in protest, but she ignores them. She has four soulmarks, and met none of the men who bear matching ones. She cannot afford to care about Fate in her situation. She thinks of the young, selfish girl she once was, without war and responsibility. How she had wanted Joffrey to bear her mark! She shudders to think of it now, being the soulmate of the boy who murdered half of her family.

Sansa glances through the curtained window of her carriage, taking in the merchants and beggars that line the streets of King’s Landing. Once, she would have been thrilled to be in the Capital, but now she can only feel disgust. Her father died here. Her brother was tortured, and only the gods know what happened to Arya. With only the carriage driver for company, they rattle through the streets. Sansa is traveling almost alone, having sent the men who came to guard her back at the border. The Lannisters can have her, but she will not give them the lives of any more Northmen.

She feels something wet push into her hand, and she smiles in relief down at her direwolf, Lady. So, not completely alone.

Petting Lady rhythmically, she gazes out the window at the castle growing larger and larger as she grows closer to meeting what she is sure will be her end.

-

 

In the end, her greeting party is rather… disappointing.

A young woman receives her and the Kings guard that met her at the border at the entrance of the throne room, sketching an impatient curtsey. She looks down at the wolf that has wound her way through Sansa’s skirts with nerves, but saves no such look for her mistress. Sansa is not sure whether to be relieved or offended.

“Lady Stark, King Joffrey is secluded on important business.” Sansa barely refrains from rolling her eyes; from the reports she has heard, she is sure that he is merely busy torturing some poor soul. “The Queen Mother requested that I, your handmaiden, introduce you to the members of the King’s small council, then escort you to your rooms.”

_A prison already,_ Sansa thinks, but she had expected little else. The handmaiden seems abrupt, but if she is a spy, at least she is not trying for false friendliness. “Very well, lead on,” she allows, and the woman pushes the doors open to the throne room.

Sansa cannot help but feel a little awed. The room is huge, much larger than the feasting room at Winterfell, and far more opulent. Her attention is drawn rather quickly to an older man who is speaking to several others at the end of the hall. He radiates authority, and Sansa shoves back her urge to gulp.

“My lord,” the woman says when their conversation reaches a standstill. “This is Lady Sansa Stark. The Queen Mother requested I bring her to you before she retires.”

The man turns piercing blue eyes on her. “Ah, the Stark girl,” the man says. “Well, she is prettier than the other one, to be sure.” Sansa nearly gasps at the informal slight to her sister. “I trust my daughter has plans for you, Lady Stark,” he addresses her. “Until then, you would be wise to keep your head down.”

Still unsure of the man’s identity, but with a growing suspicion that he is most likely Tywin Lannister, the head of the Lannister family, Sansa murmurs an answer in the affirmative. The man nods sharply before leaving the hall.

Sansa hears a light hum from behind, spinning quickly to face the next person that will eye her as if she is livestock he just bought. Surely, at least, this one cannot be as rude as the last.

She meets grey-green eyes, and then she is lost.

Her breath catches in her throat at the sight of the small man standing before her. She feels like her whole body is on fire; unless she touches him right away, she will burn to dust. His eyes are as wide as hers, but they do not focus on her face. No, he stares only at the bright red of her hair.

“And this is the Master of Coin, Lord Petyr Baelish.”

Sansa hardly hears the woman’s words over the roaring in her ears. When he opens his mouth to speak, the whole world falls away.

“Your mother was my queen of beauty,” he tells her. His voice is light and teasing, but his expression is fathomless.

She knows those words. She knows them better than any words she could ever come across. _Soulmate._

Sansa snaps back to the present at the thought, as if she has been doused in cold water. _Of course,_ she thinks. _He knew my mother._ _He is seeing my mother. My dead mother._

She has known her reply to this particular soulmate for years, words discovered and discarded in the middle of long summer nights when she wondered what kind of soulmate of hers might call her mother beautiful. The words tumble out without any of the coolness she has imagined. “I am not my mother, my lord.”

Sansa glimpses an expression of pure and utter surprise before he drops into a bow at the waist, bending to grasp and press a long kiss to her hand. The motion is so fast that her head spins. “No, my lady,” he tells her finally, still bent over her hand. His words are as practiced as hers; after all, he had the same clues that she did. She wonders if he had imagined that the mother referenced was hers, and is suddenly desperate to know how this all came to pass. They are locked in this position for several moments that feel like hours, and though Sansa knows that she should worry about onlookers, she does not think that she could look away from this man if she tries. _Petyr Baelish,_ she sounds out in her head. The syllables roll voiceless off her tongue. Finally, he straightens, dark eyes boring into hers, this time ignoring her hair altogether. “No, you are not.”

It seems ridiculous to say that one knows the exact moment that their life changes. But Sansa feels something shift when she looks into Petyr Baelish’s eyes. She can almost see his mind ticking, plans evolving, futures disintegrating and rebuilding. Somehow she knows that she has just seen a man doubt everything he knows and reconstruct it all in seconds, and she feels undeniably powerful at the thought.

“Moving along, milady,” the woman tells her, lightly pushing on her waist. Sansa moves with the prompting, but her eyes stay on the Master of Coin. Her _soulmate._

She takes a deep breath, tearing her eyes from his. “I will see you soon, Lady Sansa,” he says in parting, backing away gracefully. He sounds confident, voice detached but there is a desperation in his eyes that makes her think that she will see him before she beds down this night. She nods, unable to swallow the lump in her throat. She cannot afford to show any more emotion. Not here.

The woman takes her through the Master of Ships and the Master of Laws before she steps before the final man in the line, who bows to her with none of the mocking of the others. The burning sensation moves from her stomach to her arm, and she nearly faints at the realization.

_Again?_

“And this is Lord Varys, Master of Whispers.”

The man straightens, and she stares at him in shock before somehow gathering herself. Varys is a name is knows from her father’s letters, and she takes a moment to wonder why he had written about everyone other than Lord Baelish.

“Well met, Lord Varys. My father spoke well of you.” She speaks carefully, watching his face.

Lord Varys’ expression shows no surprise at her words, but he does keep his eyes trained unwaveringly on hers. He takes her hand like the others, stooping to kiss it. “I am forever at your service, my dear,” he whispers. It is so quiet that she can barely hear it, but she does all the same.

“Thank you,” she replies, trying to sound confident and regal like her mother. She suspects she falls short, but Varys gives her a small, sincere smile for her efforts.

“I will escort the lady to her rooms,” he announces, holding out his arm to her. “I am sure she is quite exhausted from her trip.” The handmaiden makes to protest, but Varys merely looks at her for several moments to make her fall silent. Sansa looks around; only several people remain. Petyr Baelish is deep in conversation with the Master of Ships, but she can feel him watching her from the corner of his eye, and the thought makes her shiver with something that isn’t only fear or discomfort.

Varys leads her from the room and further into the castle, but Sansa stops him. “I am not quite ready to see my rooms, my lord,” she says, her voice low. Perhaps her soulmate can give her some true answers. “Perhaps we could see the gardens?”

He studies her for a moment. “Yes,” he agrees after a brief pause. “I do believe the fresh air will be good for you.”

He leads her out into the gardens, Lady following at their heels, and waits several minutes before he begins to speak. “I saw you speaking to Littlefinger, milady,” Varys says, keeping his tone casual.

There is only one man with whom she spent any time speaking. Sansa knows exactly of whom he speaks, but plays dumb for the moment. “Littlefinger?”

Varys smirks at her knowingly. “Lord Baelish,” he clarifies. “I can help you, my dear, and I will, but you must stay away from him.”

The truth of their connection is on the tip of her tongue, but she falters. This man might be meant for her, but she is in King’s Landing. Her father had described it as a nest of vipers in his letters. She does not truly know Lord Varys, nor Lord Baelish; how can she trust them?

“If he is so dangerous,” she begins, slow and deliberate, “is it not better to keep him close?” She pauses, wondering whether the information in her soulmark is common knowledge. “Do you know any connection he has with my family? He was quite… familiar.”

“He was in love with your mother, but do not look to him for sympathies. He would destroy this kingdom without blinking an eye if he could be king of the ashes,” Varys replies bluntly. Sansa’s heart sinks.

“Oh,” she says softly. Varys peers closely at her, curious at her reaction. He only hums, coming to a stop on a small balcony overlooking the sea.

“We will not be overheard here,” he tells her. “Face the water; there are many lip readers that hide in the brush.”

Sansa nods, looking out over the water. She wants to know all about the man standing next to her, but can only begin with one burning question. “Can I see it? Your mark? I’m sorry; I cannot trust…” she trails off.

He nods, discreetly pulling up his sleeve and baring the sentence she said merely an hour ago. “And yours?” He asks, and as stoic as he has been so far, she can hear the wistful note to his tone.

She reaches up her sleeve, rubbing at her skin. At his curious gaze, she tells him that her mother had taught her how to cover it up in case it was to be used against her. “Northern tricks,” she claims, coaxing a smile from him. Finally, she shakes out her long, wide sleeves, giving him a quick glance of the gold on her skin before allowing her sleeve to fall.

“I will get you home, Sansa,” he tells her after several moments. His eyes are serious, and she feels protected for the first time since she left home. If being with Lord Baelish felt like being on fire, Lord Varys feels like a warm hearth.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Lord Varys-”

“Varys,” he corrects.

“ _Varys,_ ” she repeats, smiling out over the water, “but I cannot leave. I have to protect my brother.”

Varys frowns. “Roose Bolton has been given Winterfell. Your brother will be his ward.”

Sansa’s heart stops, and she rounds on Varys. “ _What?_ ”

“Turn to the sea,” he reminds her, and she does so reluctantly. “Did you really think the Lannisters would let the Starks continue to have power in the North? The best thing I can do for you is marry you to a boy with armies and help you take back your home. But you cannot remain here; Cersei will kill you if she finds no use for you.”

“Then give me a use,” Sansa tells him. “If you want to help me, help me take down the Lannisters. I have known you for only an hour, but no soulmate of mine would have any love for them; I just know it. I can give you the support of the North; they will never follow Roose Bolton for long.”

Varys sighs, and she realizes how young and idealistic she must seem to him. “Stay composed and submissive, Sansa. Never let them know that they are affecting you.” He pauses. “And keep your little guard dog with you at all times; I’m sure I do not need to expound on why.”

“So you’ll help me.”

“I need to think, my dear, but for now-”

Sansa never hears what she should do for now, as they are interrupted by a familiar voice.

“I apologize for intruding, my friend, but Lady Stark owes me a turn about the gardens.”

Varys exhales, an odd mixture of annoyance and humor filling his expression. “Will you ever learn to wait your turn, Littlefinger?”

Lord Baelish smiles, but it is a wide and false one. “Now, Lord Varys, I’m not sure the lady enjoys being spoken of as if she has no voice.”

They both turn to her expectantly, and she knows the impression that she makes here will be an important one. She binds her pain and suffering tightly in her heart and smiles sweetly, the way she used to when she wanted extra lemon cakes for dessert. “Your wordplay is quite clever, Lord Baelish, but it does not change the fact that you never offered such an invitation.”

Varys’ mouth twitches, but he makes no sound. “There, Baelish, as you can see, the lady sings quite a different tune than you hoped.”

Lord Baelish ignores him, taking a step closer. Her whole body shivers as his eyes drink her in, smirking at her involuntary response. She feels sensitive all over; they are both far too close. She needs to get rid of one of them. “Lady Sansa,” Baelish says, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. “Would you deign to accompany me for an evening stroll?”

Sansa looks at Varys, then back at Petyr. She expects that Baelish will not give up, and that makes her decision easy. “Very well, my lord, but only if you would take me by the Godswood.”

Baelish does not hide his triumphant smirk. “Your wish is my command, my dear.”

Sansa nods to Varys before taking Petyr’s arm. The contact burns. “Have a good evening, Lord Varys.”

“I will see you on the morrow, my lady,” Varys replies, and it sounds more like a statement than a question. She watches him leave, feeling Lord Baelish’s eyes burning onto her skin. She is afraid of meeting them.  

“Shall we?” Lord Baelish rasps, tugging her forward. She nods, easily keeping pace with his slow gait.

“The direwolf is quite effective,” he begins, looking down at Lady. Sansa contains her amusement that both of her soulmates felt the need to draw attention to Lady; she is not even at her full size.

She decides to make Lord Baelish aware of it. “Direwolves grow much larger than this; she is but a puppy still.”

Lord Baelish hums, but says nothing further on the subject. He waits until they have arrived in the Godswood to continue speaking. “Your mark, my lady…”

“Not without indecency, Lord Baelish,” she interrupts with a blush, thinking of the words on her stomach.

He nods in spite of her answer. “I believe you,” he says quietly. “I feel it – I cannot explain-”

“Me too,” Sansa says, thinking of the dizziness and joy that she has been trying to push back in favor of rationality and sense. At least if he is struggling to do the same, it puts them on more of an equal level.

Lord Baelish turns to her, something in his eyes that she has never seen in another person. “Sansa,” he tries, somehow sounding both smooth and ragged, and the dam breaks.

“You loved my mother,” she accuses. “Don’t try to convince me that you could… Not me.”

He looks stricken, but she thinks she could peel it away like a mask. “No – well, yes, my dear, but you are my soulmate…”

“I am my own person,” she interrupts, holding back tears. “Everyone in this pit of vipers is a liar; please don’t lie to me too.”

Baelish opens his mouth to keep speaking honeyed words, but the words on his chest flare in warning. If he keeps lying, he will lose her.

With a sigh, he seats himself at the base of the old, white tree, beckoning her to sit next to him. It is tempting to pull her into his grasp and his lap, to feel her and kiss her, but she is still barely a woman. That would stop him with few others, but his soulmate is one. In this, he must play the long game.

Whether to woo her or kill her for being a weakness, he does not yet know.

“You look like her, you know,” he says quietly. “You have Cat’s beauty. I am sorry,” he pauses. “I mourned her passing,” he says instead.

“Did you mourn my father’s?” She asks, eyes focused on him.

He lets out a bitter laugh. “I warned your father not to trust anyone, least of all me. His own hubris killed him.”

He is not a little astonished at the amount of truths she is pulling from him, and he resolves to watch his words more carefully. “But that is all in the past. And what of the future, Sansa Stark?” Her name tastes like the finest wine on his tongue. “ _Your_ future? What do you want?”

Sansa remembers Lord Varys saying that Petyr Baelish is dangerous, and she thinks she already knows what he means. He is small and slight, but his words are sharper than any knife.

_He would destroy this kingdom without blinking an eye if he could be king of the ashes._

“I want power,” she says, not meeting his eyes for fear he could see the lie.

“Truly?” He asks after a pause, his voice light and gracious. _Dangerous._

She tries again. “I want a world that is safe from the people that would do harm to me and mine, and I would do anything to bring that world into reality.” And though a part of her wants to escape this terrible place, find Rickon, and hide, she knows that is now impossible. The Lannisters would not let her leave, and somehow, she doubts that Petyr Baelish would either. “Lord Baelish, I need your help.”

Lord Baelish taps her on the cheek, guiding her eyes to meet his. “Call me Petyr,” he tells her, his breath coming in short puffs against her face. They sit underneath the Godswood, cross-legged like children, making promises that might tear down a kingdom. She wants to laugh at the incongruity of it all.

“Petyr,” she agrees. “And you must call me Sansa, when it is just us.”

Petyr’s eyes alight, and Sansa suddenly feels as though she is playing with fire. “Sansa,” he rasps, his hand pressing her cheek firmer. “The Lannisters are no true friends of mine. I will get you what you want.”

Sansa watches him warily, but her heart longs to believe him. “You’ll forgive me if I… If I doubt, my lord.”

“ _Petyr,_ ” he stresses. “I will prove it to you, Sansa.” To his surprise, his mind is whirling faster than it ever has before. Maybe he will not have to kill her, and instead he will have a second Cat to love him the way the first one never had. Sansa is already more ruthless, and obviously less concerned with honor, though her duty to her House remains.

And there is something else… Something, however blasphemous, _more_ than Catelyn Stark. It will bear further watching

She laughs, breaking him from his thoughts.

“What is it?” Petyr asks, his mouth twitching helplessly at the first sign of her joy.

“Nothing, it’s just… I just realized…” she trails off.

“Yes?

“We sit beneath the Godswood, plotting, and yet I always thought my soulmate would propose the instant I saw him, instead of promising death on my enemies,” Sansa admits, torn between blushing and giggling. She tries to look away, but Petyr hooks his finger underneath her chin to draw her back.

“All in good time,” he whispers, while his mind pushes thoughts of a marriage as far back as he can. He doubts Cersei would ever allow it anyways. “But for now,” he begins, leaning toward her, eyes glittering.

Sansa leans back, sighing. “You loved my mother, Petyr. I’ve been told I resemble her. This isn’t… I need time.”

To his credit, her soulmate draws back immediately, but his eyes are still on her lips. “Very well, my dear,” he tells her. “I will convince you.” He stands, pulling her to her feet. “For now, you must seek out Margaery Tyrell.”

Sansa is suspicious. “The King’s betrothed?”

Petyr nods. “Emulate her. Become her friend. I will speak to Olenna Tyrell about more serious protection, as she stands in the vacuum behind the Lannisters, but for now, I need you to make yourself indispensable.” Petyr talks in a language that Sansa does not understand well, but she swears then and there that she will learn the language of secrets like she learns the language of a true lady.

Sansa looks at her feet. “I don’t know how to do that.” For the first time, she appears as the girl of six and ten years that she is. It is a wonder that she hid it from him for so long.

Petyr chuckles regardless. She is precious, and some voice inside him tells him that she is his. “You are beautiful and quite wise, from what I have seen just this evening. As to the long game, I must think.”

They find their way back to the path. “Lord Baelish,” Sansa begins, cautious of the servants around the garden. “If I had not been… what I am, what would you… I mean-”

Petyr looks at her on his arm, and the passion cools to calculation. “Sweetling-”

She does not allow herself to become distracted by the endearment, though it sends shivers up her spine. “The truth, if you please.”

He laughs for a moment, tender and genuine, and several servants turn to gaze upon such a sight. “My girl, I fear that anything but the truth is becoming an impossibility with you.” He sighs. “Well-”

“Lady Stark?”

They stop short as a large figure appears on their path. It is a tall blonde woman with a severe expression, dressed in armor with a large, clanking sword at her side. Sansa’s arm tightens around Petyr’s for an instant before she lets go; she does not want to appear weak.

Petyr becomes a different person before her eyes, eyes darkening and a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Ah, the Lady Brienne! What can Lady Stark and I do for you?”

Brienne eyes him warily, hand on her sword, but says nothing. Instead, she turns to Sansa, her armor allowing the movement noisily. “My lady Stark, I was tasked by your mother with your protection. Will you have my sword?” She kneels, and Sansa looks down at her, speechless.

Two soulmates on the King’s Council and a lady knight for protection in this cursed world? She cannot be so lucky.

Maybe the knight is one of Cersei’s. She tries to look at Petyr without truly looking at Petyr, and takes a deep breath when he nods nearly imperceptibly. Not Cersei’s. “Yes, my lady, I will have it,” Sansa decides, reaching forward to pull Brienne to her feet. She knows that it is not ceremonial, but it feels like something her mother would have done. “Will you then escort me to my chambers, and tell me of my mother and how you met?” That is how Sansa will determine the truth.

Brienne nods sharply, but her features and posture seems so relieved that her beauty improves dramatically.

When Petyr nods to her, taking a step back, several more men peel themselves from the shadows and join Brienne at her back. When she tries to discern their friendliness from Petyr, he just shakes his head. Cersei’s men, then.

“It is kind of the Queen to give me such protection,” she says carefully.

Petyr nods. “Oh yes, my lady. Our Queen is a most gracious host.” He bows to her. “A mere moment is too long before we should meet again, Lady Sansa. As to your question earlier…” He pauses. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but King’s Landing is brighter for it either way.”

Sansa nods, recognizing the answer for what it is. The truth, to the best of a liar’s ability. “Thank you, Lord Baelish. My mother would be much comforted to know how an old friend is looking out for her daughter.”

Lord Baelish bows once more, a smirk in place, before he turns and walks swiftly in the other direction.

As Brienne escorts her to her chambers, Sansa reaches down and folds her fingers into Lady’s fur. The direwolf whines, nudging into her hand. The familiar gives her strength and comfort in the face of all this change.

Sansa suspects, despite her sheer exhaustion from the journey, she will not sleep well in King’s Landing this night. 

Sansa is right; she does not. Nor would she for many nights to come.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts? <3


End file.
